


borne to ash and back again

by euphemea



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Gen, Mid-Timeskip
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:28:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28483911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/euphemea/pseuds/euphemea
Summary: Animal Bone Dice: Cubic dice made from animal bones. They probably belong to someone who enjoys weird games.Shamir shakes the dice, feels the bones rustle in her hand. With a practiced flick of her wrist, she drops them, letting them clatter against the table.Four-five-six.Perfect.~~Written forLost & Found Zine.
Relationships: Catherine & Shamir Nevrand
Comments: 2
Kudos: 7





	borne to ash and back again

**Author's Note:**

> This was an absolutely wonderful project to take part in, and I'm so glad I had the opportunity to write for it. Please keep an eye out for leftover sales, and check out the other pieces for this zine as well!

Shamir thumbs against the grooves of the dice, letting them rock in her palm. There’s a soothing rhythm to how they clack together, a homely wisdom to their fleeting weight—chipped and hollowed and misshapen with use. They murmur to one another in a dance of three partners, almost unsure how to hold each other despite years of intimacy and understanding, stumbling and awkward but eventually in step. 

For a moment, they’re so light that Shamir can envision crushing them with a single squeeze, letting them fade from damage to dust, before opening again to let the sands seep away. Unfortunately, shedding the past is never that simple.

Shamir sighs and takes another sip of her whiskey.

Catherine’s laugh cuts through, loud and ringing from the bar, and Shamir grimaces. Shamir’s partner, on display for the whole town to see, once again plying the regulars with stories and a little too much honesty. Catherine’s desperation taints the air, bleeds in cracks and wounds that Shamir has never understood—Catherine has only ever thought about Rhea. She gesticulates wildly, slapping one man on the shoulder and clinking pints with another, her smile stretched harsh on her face, an austere sight paired with the circles under her eyes. 

Shamir drops her chin to a hand, rolling her eyes at Catherine’s antics. It’s this, every time, in every town. 

It’s not safe here. It’s not safe anywhere. Not for a pair of knights, not even for ones so in tune they cover each other’s weaknesses like breathing. 

Rhea’s been missing. Four years and Catherine’s faith has never wavered, but Shamir can’t say the same. She’s paid her debt, she’s fulfilled her wordless contract—and yet, here she is, still fighting for a cause she can’t call her own. Maybe she’s gotten soft with the years. Maybe age has turned her sentimental in a way she’d sworn she’d left behind in Dagda. Maybe that’s not so bad.

But even if they do find Rhea, it won’t mean an end to suffering—war has laid siege to Fódlan, battle has sunk into the continent’s bones. She and Catherine have seen it with their own eyes. They’ve seen it in broken towns. They’ve seen it in children left in the streets. They’ve seen it in death after death after death. Rhea’s return won’t herald peace. 

And so: what are they actually searching for? Shamir wishes she knew.

Another forced laugh sounds at the bar, cutting into Shamir’s thoughts. Her eyes flicker to Catherine, somewhere in the middle of her second tankard, and Shamir places her own drink aside. Catherine’s posture—ramrod, tense, almost overbearing—says she hasn’t gotten the answers she wants. They’ll be here for a while. 

Shamir shakes the dice, feels the bones rustle in her hand. With a practiced flick of her wrist, she drops them, letting them clatter against the table.

_Four-five-six_. Perfect.

Shamir smirks. Her luck always was the best with these dice. A more superstitious person might say that they were blessed by her former partner’s memory, but Shamir’s never been one for ghost stories and fairy tales. There’s enough in the world that’s ridiculous without believing in the dreams of credulous fools. 

She rolls again. _Two-three-three_. Nothing special. She covers the dice with her hand.

But, Shamir thinks as she picks up her drink, maybe she’s not so different from the people who cling to any sign of safety. After all, she’s had these dice for years, and they’re long past their prime. There’s nothing to them but their sentimental value; the only price they could fetch is the hours of comfort they had once offered Shamir on her sojourn across the sea. They’d been newer then, only one divot chipped away, but still just imperfectly carved pieces of bone. They’ve only ever been worth anything to her.

Shamir downs the rest of her drink, and her eyes land on the bar once more. 

Catherine’s not chatting up the locals anymore. She’s slapping down a couple gold, picking up two pints of beer, and shaking her head. She turns, catching Shamir’s eye, and raises the glasses in greeting, her face a little brighter than the moment before. Shamir sits back, picking up the dice and crossing her arms, and waits for Catherine to slide in across from her.

“I hope you don’t expect me to drink one of those,” Shamir says, an eyebrow arched. “There are better ways to ruin my night.”

Catherine laughs. “Wouldn’t dream of it. I remember that time we went out with Alois and two beers in, you started challenging everyone to knife-throwing because you were so pissed about how much you hated the taste. We were lucky not to be banned after you almost took the barkeep’s eye out.”

Shamir lets out a snort. “Maybe he shouldn’t have made comments about my ass.”

Catherine shrugs and takes a draft from one of her beers. “Probably.” Her eyes flick down Shamir and back to her face. “But I can’t fault him.”

Shamir brings a hand up to her face and shakes her head. The heavy-handed flirting is equal parts annoying and endearing. “Focus. We’re here for information, not for you to have a good time.”

“We can do both,” Catherine throws back, but the lightness in her voice is strained. After years of working together, Shamir recognizes that tone. “Though, there’s really not a whole lot of good times to be found these days. Especially not with Lady Rhea still missing.”

“Do you really think Rhea will fix everything?” Shamir can’t keep the dryness out of her tone, and a wry grin twists her lips. She shuffles the dice in her palm and shakes them, listening to the muted clicking against the backdrop of the tavern’s noises. 

“Well, no,” says Catherine, grimacing. “But things will be easier with her. It’s a lot harder to rally morale without a leader.”

Shamir can’t disagree with that, even if she’d like to argue that every person should go their own way. You can’t inflict a cause on anyone and have them believe it. It’s not efficient, and it’s just not how people work. But they’ve had this conversation enough times to know that it’s not worth pursuing. 

She stares at Catherine, determined to find the bottom of that unfathomably deep, blind loyalty. Like every time before, she comes up short. Catherine doesn’t meet her eye, staring instead into her drink. The silence between them stretches uncomfortably. Shamir breaks first, clicking her tongue and dropping her gaze. Reaching for a distraction, she lets the dice in her palm fall to the table.

_Three-four-six_. That seems in keeping with the tone of the evening.

“Say, Shamir,” Catherine says, gaze curious as it darts between Shamir and her dice. A small wave of relief settles in Shamir. Distraction successful. “I’ve always wanted to know… What are those dice? They’re animal bone, right?” Shamir nods noncommittally. “Kinda creepy, if you ask me. Three’s a weird number of them to have.”

Shamir grabs the dice back, grabbing them protectively. “They’re nothing.”

“I’m not judging!” Catherine throws up a hand, defensive. “I’ve just always meant to ask. They mean something to you, right?”

Shamir loosens her grip. “You could say that.” 

“So tell me about them.” Catherine tosses a glance over her shoulder. The men at the bar have changed, but none of them look like they know anything. Catherine’s posture sags, disappointed, but she makes no move to get up. With a small, frustrated hum, she turns back to Shamir. “We’ve got some hours to kill. The night’s still young.”

“What’s there to say? They’re dice, they’re mine. There’s nothing special to them. They’re not for hunting—they have nothing to do with my role as a mercenary.”

“But you’ve been carrying them around all this time, and you keep rolling them.”

“I have, and I do.” Shamir turns the dice over in her palm. “I brought them with me from Dagda.”

“I figured. You’ve had them for as long as I can remember.”

Shamir raises an eyebrow, a warning against further interruption, and Catherine backs off, content to occupy herself with her beer. 

“I had them for a while before I left Dagda, too.” In her mind’s eye, she can almost see the dice double. “There were six, once. Three for me, three for—” Shamir clears her throat. The ghosts of the other set of dice hang in the air, unwilling to dissipate. “Never mind, it doesn’t matter.”

Shamir shakes her head. There’s no use dwelling on them; they’d been destroyed during the job gone wrong that had sent her fleeing to Fódlan. Her own crumbling dice might be the only remaining bits of that stag left to the world. 

Shamir continues. “They’re for a game from Dagda, called _Sì-Wŭ-Liù_. Cee-lo, as the people of Western Adrestia know it. It’s not hard; you just roll until you get a recognized set.” She drops the dice onto the table to demonstrate. _One-three-four_. She picks up the dice to roll them again. _Two-two-four_. “You stop when you get a double or a triple, and you win by having a better roll than your opponent. You win automatically if you roll four-five-six.” She glances up at Catherine. “Want to try?”

“Sure.”

Shamir nods to the dice, and Catherine takes them, placing her beer to the side. She shakes them for a long moment, cupping with both hands, her brow drawn together in concentration. She releases from high, and the dice skitter across the surface of the table, just barely missing its edge.

Shamir grimaces. “Careful. Don’t throw them.” She looks down at the dice, taking stock of Catherine’s roll, and lets out a chuckle. “One-two-three. Of course you’d roll the worst possible combination on your first attempt.”

“No—wait, what?”

“One-two-three is an automatic loss.” Shamir pools the dice back together, repressing a grin as Catherine gapes at them.

“You’re shitting me.”

“I wish I were, honestly.”

Catherine groans, sinking slightly into her seat and pulling her glass toward her to take a drink. “I hate this Crest sometimes. It always gives me the worst luck.”

Shamir rolls her eyes, a twinge of fondness blooming in her chest. “We didn’t even bet anything on that round.”

Catherine winces. “I’ve learned never to bet with you. I can’t win. But I want another go.”

“Sure,” Shamir says, nodding to the dice. “All yours.”

Catherine rolls again, more carefully this time. “Hah! One-one-four. That’s a pair.”

“But not a good one.” Shamir can’t resist ribbing Catherine, at least a little. “My turn.”

They play for a while, passing the dice back and forth. Catherine’s beers dwindle and the night draws on, the tavern becoming quieter and more sedate. Catherine doesn’t remember that they came for answers until the oil in the lamps burns low, and she starts with a jolt as she realizes. But it’s fine—Shamir’s kept an eye on the clientele. No one here seems like they would know anything. She doesn’t count the night as a loss. 

It’s been nice, sitting and playing. A surprising and pleasant distraction after the years they’ve spent on the roads, searching for answers, turning up nothing. This is the first break they’ve let themselves have in a long time. 

There’s no space for lightheartedness in war. Except, maybe, it isn’t wrong to come up for air in the stillness between battles. The pockets of relief they carve out for themselves can be in service of completing their task—no one has the energy to fight without rest. 

And, loathe as she is to admit it, Shamir’s missed the easy flow of good camaraderie.

At the end of the night, they’re some of the last people in the tavern. The barkeep keeps sending them irritated looks by the time Catherine stretches and suppresses a yawn, her spine crackling like an old crone’s. She’s only won a handful of games; beginner’s luck has evaded her completely. Catherine stands to return their glasses and Shamir watches as she approaches the bar for one last time.

Shamir hasn’t played _Sì-Wŭ-Liù_ with anyone since Dagda. Most days, she just tosses the dice to herself. She’d forgotten how much easier it is to pass the time playing with someone else. The mind-numbing loneliness of rolling through a game for two on her own stings like an old ache that healed wrong, burning the strongest in quiet hours and still moments. With this, it’s been reopened to set correctly. The nostalgia leaves something warm in her chest.

The anxiety of war is still there, gnawing at her consciousness. But kindled hope beats it away, and for the first time in years, she can almost believe that light will return.

Catherine calls to her, waving her toward the exit. Shamir nods and stands, pocketing her dice and cataloging her weapons before striding over—all four hidden daggers are in their places. 

Catherine grins at her. “You ready, partner?”

Shamir nods, letting Catherine lead their way. 

Partner. She’d almost forgotten how many things that word could mean. She’s glad it’s been renewed. 

Shamir smiles as she follows Catherine over the threshold and back into the dark of night.

**Author's Note:**

> [Find me on twitter!](https://twitter.com/euphemeas)


End file.
